


The Case of the Apparent Adulterers

by Jayne L (JayneL)



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-05
Updated: 2010-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-13 12:54:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayneL/pseuds/Jayne%20L





	The Case of the Apparent Adulterers

Mary stands at the centre of Holmes's chamber in shoes, stockings, garters and corset. The drapes are drawn, but poorly; a shaft of yellow afternoon sunlight pierces the room's smoky gloom, and Mary has placed herself directly in its path. It warms her bare skin, makes her feel decadent and dangerous: they're doing this in broad daylight.

Holmes circles her slowly, consideringly. His attention is fixed upon her as she's seen it fixed upon his experiments, his cases--as it has been fixed upon her before, albeit never in this context. He observes her; she waits, breathing, excitement and arousal firing her nerves, for his observations to lead him to action.

Finally, all at once, he closes the distance between them, moving decisively to stand close behind her. She feels the brush of his hand against her bare hip; then, with a firmness that makes her heart pound, he touches the seam of her corset, runs his fingers straight up her back along the smooth weave of laces from her hips to her shoulderblades. From there, his hand skims over her shoulder and proceeds to trace the lines of the garment--the long, stiff sweep of stays, the row of hard little clasps down the front, the edges where violet satin gives way to Mary's slowly-pinking skin--in a studious frenzy of tactile exploration. His other hand travels down, without hesitation or modesty, to curl between her legs, his blunt fingers dipping into her, slicking themselves with each press of his palm. With his arms encircling her, she leans back, her distracted gaze fixed straight ahead; he accepts the weight of her body, stands solidly behind her, so warm as to feel fevered. Her left hand clasps his forearm where it stretches across her abdomen, and she feels the flex of his arm with each movement of his hand upon her, each slide of his fingers within.

His hands, so different in size and feel from John's, are no less expert. Mary hadn't quite expected that--not for her--and is caught off-guard by their cunning dexterity, their rough callouses, their lack of delicacy as Holmes strokes her ceaselessly. The build within her is steady and inexorable, yet her climax is sudden, surprising, her legs shaking such that Holmes must support her fully.

When she comes back to herself, he is laying her upon the chaise; when he moves to leave her there alone, she sits up, restraining him with her hand on his shoulder. "You're still clothed, Mr Holmes," she admonishes, her voice huskier than its custom, and plucks accusingly at the fabric of his shirt.

"I am," he agrees, "but that is a matter easily rectified, if only I were permitted to do so." Mary smiles and releases him; in an instant he has stood, pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it away, abandoned his trousers in a pile on the carpet. Having done so, he stops--oddly, arrested in motion as if he has just realised his nudity--and stares down at her, his eyes dark again with the faraway intensity of thought.

Mary, holding herself upright with one hand on the back of the lounge, stares at him in return. She is familiar with the lean, trim lines of John's body, his angular frame, the paleness of his complexion; Holmes, in contrast, is broad and square, muscular in a workmanlike fashion--curiously so, for all his hours spent cloistered in study and contemplation. Away from the piercing sunbeam, lit only by guttering firelight and the golden flicker of the lamps, his skin appears burnished.

His cock stands hard and flushed against his belly. Mary finds herself surprised again; not because she had thought him in any way incapable, or even wholly uninterested--John has told her of Irene Adler, and she has understood the things he has not said--but because she had rather suspected that, as with Holmes's hands, such of his attentions were not, could not be, for her.

Even as she knows she was not entirely wrong in that belief--were it not for John, she cannot imagine Holmes's enthusiasm in this moment with her would be quite so thorough--she is nevertheless satisfied to be proven at least partially so.

Satisfied and, as the sweep of his gaze makes her squirm where she sits, eager for more, tantalisingly thrilled.

When he moves again, finally, it is to join her on the chaise--or, more accurately, to sit upon the chaise, between her legs but facing forward, her right leg between his back and the cushion, her left across his lap. She lies back, stretching, catlike; his hands smooth restlessly along the length of her leg, from the black buckle of her shoe still fastened at her ankle to the bare skin of her thigh above the clasp of garter to cream-white stocking. She shivers at the roving warmth of his touch, and he repeats it, his eyes fixed avidly upon the path of his hands.

When he reaches her shoe again, he begins tugging at the buckle. "Now it is you who remain regretfully attired," he says, working the strap loose and pulling the shoe from her foot. But as he is about to toss it to the floor, he pauses, casting a speculative glance. "Unless you would prefer--"

"Take it off. Everything." And Mary's breath catches at the immediacy of Holmes's obedience: he skims his hands back up to her knee, undoes the garter and hooks his fingers under her stocking, rolls it down and off with determined efficiency. The other shoe and stocking follow; then, Mary sits up and turns her back to him, sways with the pull and release of his sure, steady unthreading of her laces.

The corset falls away. Before Mary can turn back to face Holmes, he is leaning close behind her, his wonderful hands cupping her breasts, the untended stubble on his cheek rasping her skin as his mouth presses hot and open to her throat. She arches against him, reaches up and curls her fingers into the hair at his nape; a little tug makes his head tilt obligingly as she turns hers, and their mouths meet in a fierce, insatiate kiss.

The realisation that it's their first sends a shock of pleasure through her, and she moans into his mouth. He jolts at the noise as if startled, the movement pressing him crudely against her hip.

She wants that pressure elsewhere. Wants it so much she aches for it, wet at the thought and, oh, *aching*. Abruptly breaking the kiss, she turns to face him fully; Holmes watches with wide eyes that are all black pupil as she rises enough to kneel astride his lap, as she fits the length of him between their bodies, as she rubs herself against him with wanton little pushes of her hips. "Apply yourself, Mr Holmes," she breathes, giving a wicked smile as his eyes widen further, as she hears a huff of a laugh, and all at once Holmes is pushing her backwards, bearing her down onto the chaise with the full length and weight of his body, reaching down to hook his hand under her knee and bend her leg up as he pushes _in_ , smooth and hard and deep.

He is not gentle. The part of her mind still capable of thinking about anything beyond the stroke of him inside her, the damp heat of their skin, the play of the muscles in his back under her hands--that tiny part of her takes note of his urgency and revels in it, dwells on the passion to which she has driven him, the great intellectual Sherlock Holmes reduced to panting, rutting need. No sooner has the thought occured than it makes her hips buck, makes her nails claw and scratch on his shoulders, makes her clench tight around him and cry out her release. Moments later, his rhythm falters; the hand that had been hooked under her leg gropes between their bodies to clutch at her inner thigh and spread her wide, and his final, driving thrust catches her on the way down, takes her with him in one last, hard rush as he comes deep inside her.

They lie motionless afterward, tangled together, gasping. Staring at each other wide-eyed until Holmes says, breathless and sudden, "I hope my efforts were commensurate with the fulfillment of your needs."

"Indeed, Mr Holmes." Mary swallows against the raw feeling in her throat, a little dazed. "Most satisfactory."

He gives a slight nod, his focus both solely, intensely on her and yet, somehow, distant. "Your servant, Mrs Watson."

A broken grunt turns both their heads: in his chair at the bottom of the steps, John is spending himself into his hand.

* * *

 _Earlier:_

"You would do well to apply yourself, Mr Holmes, to the utmost of your ability," she said, using the dry tone usually reserved for the more recalcitrant children in her charge.

Holmes smirked, his attention on his wine glass as he splashed it with the dregs of the bottle they'd shared at tea. "My dearest Mary, you betray yourself. Your exhortation reveals a preoccupation with your own satisfaction--a selfish, and therefore rather unhandsome, quality in a lover."

"On the contrary." She curved a smile at his sidelong glance. "What you have failed to consider is that pleasing me will, in turn, please John. And is that not the desired object of this endeavour?"

His expression turned pensive. "My pleasing you pleases Watson."

She nodded solemnly. Then, with an air of artless nonchalance belied utterly by the mischievous gleam in her eyes, she added, "Of course, as you have no doubt already surmised, _my_ pleasing _you_ will, naturally, cause the same effect."

Holmes stood very still, arrested in both motion and thought. The final drop of wine beaded on the lip of the bottle, clinging stubbornly.

"You must admit, old boy," John said in the silence, peering over Mary's shoulder as he finished unbuttoning her dress. "Her logic is irrefutable."

The drop fell.

 

End.


End file.
